


drip for him tonight

by depthsofgreen



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, M/M, Switching, hallucination oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen
Summary: Ed knows he'll soon be giving Oswald's ghost a final goodbye. He decides to have him every way he can before that.





	drip for him tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the most recent episode, 3x15: "How The Riddler Got His Name." This takes place sometime between the scene with Ed in Lucius's car and the final dock scene.

Ed’s already feeling high before he crushes the pill between his teeth, the bitter chemical spill of it against his tongue no match for the rush of what he’s just breathed aloud: _I’m the Riddler_.

 _I’m the Riddler_ , he mutters to himself, low, frenzied, imagining the syllables trailing behind him like a scarf as he paces furiously toward the mansion he knows he can no longer call his home, _I’m the Riddler, I’m the Riddler, I’m the Riddler._

The mantra is interrupted as Ed steps inside to find Oswald, seated at the dining table, legs crossed and singing, no theatrics this time, no red light or backing track: _When he comes to me, I drip for him tonight…_

Ed stills a few feet before him, breathing hard, pulse loud and fast. He looks Oswald up and down: his eyes luminous, heavy-lidded and darkly made-up, mouth berry-red, skin smooth and dry.

 _Drowning in me_ , Oswald continues, eyes fluttering softly closed, head falling back, _We bathe under blue light_ …

Ed watches him, listens, the low sultry tone of his melody stirring something in his chest and something lower, too. He knows, in his bones, that this will all be gone soon, this projection of Oswald lost to the ether. It infuses every lick of Oswald’s tune with something urgent, something deeply melancholy, something aching and desperate.

Something, Ed admits to himself, with a heated flare of truth discovered, scorchingly and recklessly _hot_.

The singing stops at that, Oswald looking up at Ed through blackened lashes as if he’s heard the admission (and, Ed supposes, in a way he probably has).

Oswald is gone then, between the blinks of Ed’s eyes, with a rush of sound that Ed has learned means he wants Ed to follow him. Ed moves, quickly, a guiding scratch at the back of his neck propelling him toward his bedroom.

And there Oswald is: seated over the edge of Ed’s bed, legs spread wide, entirely nude. He’s shining wet again, but looking rosy and quite alive otherwise, panting as his hand strokes lustily at the inside of his thigh.

“I appear to be _dripping_ all over your mattress,” Oswald grins, lips glossy, “Are you going to do anything about it?”

Panic grips Ed at that. He _wants_ , desperately, but he isn’t sure what that means, exactly, eyes dropping to Oswald’s flushed, erect cock as his own swells in his pants, a mix of arousal, terror, and the amphetamines in his bloodstream sending beads of sweat dribbling down the sides of his face.

Oswald watches, smile softening.

“Oh my,” he laughs, not cruelly but not kindly, either, “Now we’re _both_ dripping. You should get out of that suit you’re so fond of before all that copious perspiration sullies the fabric.”  

Hands shaking, Ed moves to undo the buttons of his jacket, folding it once it’s off and laying it gingerly onto the floor. He does the same with each item of clothing left on him after that, fingers moving faster, skin getting hotter and wetter all over as Oswald watches him, unblinking, biting down on his bottom lip and wrapping a hand around his own cock.

Ed’s nerves settle once he’s naked, standing before Oswald, hard, chest puffed out, reminding himself: _I’m the Riddler_. It emboldens him that it still feels true even with his suit on the floor behind him. _I’m the Riddler_ , he repeats internally, heart racing, a quiet sense of power stilling the lingering tremble in his hands.

He strides toward Oswald then, stands between his legs and brings his hands down to grip his shoulders, delighted and startled at how _real_ he feels, how much like actual flesh, warm and moist and shivering beneath his touch.

Ed looks down at Oswald, who looks back up at him, berry lips parted and chest rising and falling. Ed considers his options: here Oswald is, in his bed, for the first and last time, soaked and shivering and open, Ed can feel, for anything Ed wants. And _want_ Ed does, wants so fiercely it’s paralyzing, because he desires it _all_ , Oswald’s hands on him, Oswald _in_ him, but also, perhaps more urgently (and perhaps not), the taste of Oswald on his lips, the velvety suck of his mouth and his ass ‘round Ed’s cock.

“We have all the time in the world,” Oswald says then, attuned to Ed’s indecision, to the enormity and nuances of his desire, “How about _you_ fuck _me_ first?”

Oswald lies back across the bed at that, scooting up, legs widening further, one hand trailing up his own chest. Ed wonders, for a moment, if the real Oswald would have ever been so forward (he suspects _not_ , but it does nothing to temper the arousal pulsing through him).

“Yeah,” Ed breathes, getting dizzy, “Okay.”

Ed lays across him, hooking Oswald’s knees up at his elbows, heart beating so fast it feels fit to _burst_ , Oswald squirming beneath him, making everything better, and _worse_ , and Ed eyes him, skin damask rose, eyes squeezed shut, wondering if he should jerk him off first, finger him maybe, or put his mouth on him -

“Ed,” Oswald snaps then, eyes open and blazing, “Don’t you think _The Riddler_ should just _take_ what he _wants_?”

He’s right, of course. He always is.

Ed grins, manic, all these new, changed parts of him lighting up as he yanks Oswald’s legs higher, brings the throbbing head of his dick to the slick crinkle of Oswald’s spread hole, rubbing at it for just a second, growling “ _look at me_ ” when Oswald’s eyes flutter shut then driving into him hard and fast as soon as Oswald’s bright green eyes comply.

He’s tight as all hell, _incredible_ , soft and squirming inside, and Ed thrusts out and in again, rhythm steady, moaning with abandon as Oswald takes the full lunging length of him, weeks and weeks and _weeks_ of tension and confused desire and anger bubbling out of Ed as he pounds furiously inside of him, Oswald’s gasps and cries themselves overwhelming as he brings wet hands to the sides of Ed’s neck.

“Come on, _Riddler_ ,” Oswald moans, stuttering just slightly as Ed jerks into him with enough force his head is lolling back against the mattress, “Come inside me, come inside me so I can do the same to you -”

Ed falters at that, shocked excitation rocketing through him, and he grunts out a “ _fuck_ , Oswald,” before resuming his pace, fucking harder, deeper, limbs shaking and muscles tensing as he nears climax, and then Oswald is craning his head up, bringing their mouths crashing together, teeth and lips and tongue messily colliding with some pain and when Oswald licks at the roof of Ed’s mouth Ed comes, howling, and Oswald comes soon after, so hard Ed can feel the spasm of it, smell the spill, and it’s all so sickeningly _hot_ he knows he’s going to have exactly no trouble going for another round.

He falls atop Oswald then, pinning him down as he pulls out and brings their mouths back together, kisses deep as they both pant and continue grinding against each other, both left so sensitive post-orgasm neither can help but to whine weakly with every drag of skin against skin.

They keep at that, tongues and hips sliding wetly and frictively together, until Ed’s cock is stiff again, and it’s only a single hip-grind later until he feels Oswald’s rise to meet him, as though his body worked immediately to reflect Ed’s own (and maybe it did, Ed smiles, remembering that he’s dead and this isn’t, after all, actually happening).

“Well, _Riddler_ ,” Oswald breaks their kiss to say with a wicked grin, “Do you think you can take as good as you give?”

Ed grins right back, wraps his arms around Oswald’s waist in reply, and flips them around so he’s flat on his back, Oswald panting above him, red-cheeked and smile fiendish.

Ed spreads his legs, then, watches Oswald settle between them, and Ed has never done anything even approaching this before, but he feels no fear, just adrenaline and a warm swell in his chest surpassing mere arousal. It’s affection, fondness…

“Love,” Oswald says aloud, as he brings two slippery fingerpads between the cheeks of Ed’s ass, right up against his hole with a soft cautious stroke and Ed’s whole body _jerks_ with the sensation of it, thighs opening further.

“Fuck, Oswald,” Ed moans as Oswald rubs with increasing pressure, his hips rocking of their own accord, hands flying to cover his face as he feels his muscles down there flex and spasm under Oswald’s touch, and it should be embarrassing but it’s Oswald, his reflection, _himself_ , so it’s fine, _good_ , even, and then Oswald’s slipping his fingers inside and it’s _better._

“Oh my god,” Ed cries, Oswald’s fingers twisting inside him, a whole new constellation of nerve endings lighting up around his slick-wet digits.

Oswald adds another finger after Ed has relaxed enough to take it without discomfort, and he starts thrusting them then, in-out again again again until Ed’s legs have worked their way up around his waist and he’s grunting helplessly, almost close enough to beg Oswald to just fuck him already when Oswald, this all-knowing Oswald he’s so lovingly created for himself, pulls out, grips onto Ed’s thighs, the blunt head of his cock replacing his thin fingers at Ed’s hole and he starts pressing in, slowly, Ed crying out louder with each added inch of cock inside him until Oswald’s hips are pressed hot against the rises of his spread ass.

“Fuck me,” Ed growls, a heated command, when Oswald stills.

With a strangled grunt Oswald complies, pulling back then fucking back in, face beet-red and mouth hanging wide open, the sounds leaving it even more desperate and vulnerable than the ones leaving Ed’s.

It’s a _lot_ , all this stretch and burn and friction and pressure, and Ed feels split open, but it’s _delicious_ , intimate and more visceral, somehow, than any of the real sex he’s had with real people, and as Oswald pumps away he reaches something especially sensitive inside Ed, and Ed _spirals_ , hips rising to get more, and it only takes a few more hard beats against that hungry spot before he’s coming, seeing red as his second orgasm is fucked out of him, shooting up onto his belly.

Ed grabs at Oswald’s ass, then, slips a finger inside of him as he keeps thrusting, laughing when Oswald howls with surprise and clenches around it, thrusting still, and it only takes a few more seconds before Oswald is coming inside him with a hot wet rush, then collapsing down, Ed’s finger slipping out and resting at the back of his thigh.

Oswald rolls off of him and onto his back beside him, gasping, and once their breaths have quieted Ed looks to the side, worried Oswald has left him but relieved to find him still there, looking up at the ceiling, tears clinging to his bottom lashes.

“Well,” Oswald says then, breathless, “I’m not in the habit of complimenting men who murdered me, but I do have to commend you for facing _this_ particular truth with this much enthusiasm.”

Ed smiles at that, but something painful tugs at him, too. He knows, after all, that facing this _truth_ , as Oswald put it, has shortened the lifespan of Oswald’s lingering presence. It won’t be long now before Ed doesn’t need him at all anymore, and then Oswald Cobblepot will be well and truly dead.

Ed’s eyes sting, but no tears come with it. It’s the necessary price, he knows, of finding himself. Of _becoming_. Edward Nygma may have needed Oswald, but The Riddler does not. The pain of that is a freeing one.

Oswald has gone very still. He, too, must know his hours are numbered.

“So,” Oswald says after several moments, “What is _The Riddler_ up to next?”

“I think I’m going to give the docks a visit once the sun rises,” Ed says, throat tight.

“I see,” Oswald replies, voice small.

“Meet me there?” Ed asks, turning to face him once more.

Oswald’s eyes are glassy and fixed still on the ceiling.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Ed doesn’t know what to say to that. Oswald sighs.

“I’ll be there,” Oswald promises, angry and heartbroken all at once, and then he’s gone.

Ed registers his absence for a moment, and flips onto his stomach, face buried into the cool silk of his pillow.

He thinks of Kristen, Isabella, Oswald, all dead; of Lucius Fox, nursing a concussion somewhere; of riddles and the city of Gotham and the terror he’ll soon be heaping upon it.

Finally, he thinks of the docks, the smell of brine and oil, the memory of Oswald’s final choked love confession. His bound hands reaching up as he sank beneath the clear cold water.

Ed shudders. With a heaving, sudden gasp, he allows himself to cry for the first time in weeks.

He sobs, body racked and head throbbing, until the sunlight’s first rays peek in through the window. He lifts his head, wipes his face, and eyes the suit sitting still on the floor, folded neatly and shining green.

“I’m ready,” he says aloud, to no one in particular.

When he slips into the suit, the fabric soft and luxurious against his skin, it feels like he’s wearing it for the very first time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from, of course, Amy Winehouse's "Wake Up Alone."


End file.
